


Much Ado About Knotting

by x_los



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Crack Treated Seriously, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Omega Verse, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omegas can be very competitive when they want the same Alpha. (An Omega!Avon fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Much Ado About Knotting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/gifts).



> beta'd by aralias
> 
> So let's stress a few v embarrassing things:
> 
> This is not even the 'real' Omega!Avon idea (god typing this hurts). This fic exists because aralias said I didn't want to get stuck in a rut (aha), writing dominant Avons all over the place. I took hearty offense and spent the rest of that Saturday writing this cheap smut to prove her wrong/show willing to engage in the grand tradition of subby Avons. Everything is her fault. She is a bad girlfriend and a bad person. 
> 
> And THEN she was like 'oh this isn't really that subby though', like, what does she want, Floods of Tears? I ask you. 
> 
> Oh, also, yes, I know the title is hilaribad, thanks for noticing.

The Infanta of Risin smiled winningly at Blake. This close to heat, her cheeks were tellingly flushed—they’d attained rather a pretty shade of pink. Her blond ringlets glinted slightly in the sun.

“ _Well_ ,” Blake said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Yes, that would be—That is, I’d be _honor_ —“

“No,” Avon interrupted smoothly.

Startled, Blake turned towards him, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean ‘no’?” Surely it was his decision. “Excuse us a moment,” he said to the Infanta.

He drew Avon aside. “What’s wrong? What am I not seeing?”

The Infanta of Risin was an Omega, and her neutral planet was inclined to support the rebellion. As a gesture of friendship and good faith, the Infanta had offered to share the first night of her heat with Blake (who was, as Avon had once wryly put it, quite obviously an Alpha in every sense).

Everyone reared in the Federation tended to wear drugged patches that kept pheromone information from being transmitted to their brains, in the same way that everyone reared in the Federation tended to wear clothing, except in exceptional circumstances. Wearing a patch protected you from embarrassment, and it was polite. Risin’s population didn’t choose to use suppressants or patches, however—this was one of the differences that kept them from being au fait with Federation customs and/or Federation cultural and political domination. And without suppressants, the people of Risin experienced (and culturally venerated) free, full heat cycles, rather than the compressed, somewhat muted and far less frequent cycles Federation gene-carriers underwent.

Avon gave Blake a vile look. “You’re exposing yourself to unnecessary security risks.”

Blake half-laughed. The Infanta’s security systems, which they’d come to know well over the course of their two-day visit, were better than any arrangements they’d come across on similar neutral worlds. Her well-trained Alpha guards could literally _smell_ a threat to her, and protected her zealously. Avon’s complaint was empty cant—he was being a parody of himself.

“I need a better reason,” Blake said, wondering what Avon wasn’t telling him. If Avon suspected something was awry, Blake wanted to know about it. “ _Well?_ ” Blake demanded.

Surely Avon wasn’t _just_ being a killjoy? That was a little over the top, even for him. Blake had initially been taken aback by the offer, but had adapted quickly to the prospect. He had no objections to the Infanta’s suggestion, and even welcomed it, after too many ruts weathered alone. And the Infanta was an Omega, after all. One in twenty people shared that status, but it was still considered something rather extraordinary and precious.

Due to the patches Blake wasn’t exactly sure what sex-class Avon was (possibly Beta?—it would be just bloody like him to feel anxious and competitive about that, when it didn’t matter a jot (see also his evident annoyance about being _slightly_ shorter than Blake)), but it was considered friendly and sociable to offer to share cycles with friends and comrades regardless of that. It was easier and more satisfying to exorcise the biological function with a partner than alone, and two Alphas or what have you could certainly relieve one another’s ruts. How well they could do so depending, of course, on who the Alphas in question were. Blake suspected he’d be _very_ relieved by Avon, who was dark-eyed and handsome, and obviously burning with barely-contained passion beneath his buttoned-up exterior.

Accordingly, Blake had extended an invitation to Avon at the start of their time on the Liberator (they weren’t exactly awash with company on the Liberator—it would have been impolite _not_ to ask)—only to be flatly turned down. Blake had been more hurt by that than was really appropriate, and had thus realized he’d been more interested than was really appropriate.

At that point he should have turned to the rest of the crew to distract himself from the thwarted attraction, but he hadn’t. Jenna (an Alpha) had already made a companionable situational arrangement with Cally—it would have been rude to interrupt. Vila (a Beta, with milder ruts) and Gan (an unmarked colonial) didn’t go in for what Blake eventually realized was a fairly Alpha-grade custom. He’d never actually asked either of them to join him and been rebuffed. He’d never actually wanted to (he suspected this was because he was sulking about Avon, more than was reasonable or unembarrassing). He’d just noticed Gan and Vila didn’t have that sort of friendship, and had chatted with the two of them casually about class-based and off-world mores at a few points.

So, all things considered, it had been a long time since Blake had sex with anyone, let alone someone so obviously compatible.

It seemed _especially_ rich for Avon to try and stop him without good cause, when Avon wasn’t making himself available and was, frankly, the reason Blake emerged from his own cabin after solitary ruts feeling wistful, lonely, unsatisfied and unjustifiably on-edge. Jenna had offered to let him sit in with her and Cally. Blake had appreciated her concern and kindness, but had demurred—he’d always felt three was a crowd. Besides, asking unmarked Cally to deal with _one_ enthused Alpha was probably more than enough.

And god help them all if, in the emotional and physical mess of rut, surrounded by his best female friends (one of whom was a telepath to boot), Blake indicated anything about who he was really interested in. Blake could only too easily imagine Avon barking ‘ _What_?’ as the three of them darted awkward glances at him the next day, unable to help it. It was the stuff of nightmares. It was bad enough that he wanted Avon and couldn’t have him without Cally and Jenna knowing about it, and what was worse, being sympathetic about it.

The Infanta was safe—Blake didn’t think he’d feel inclined to maudlin confessions with a stranger. The Infanta was offering him an alliance Blake couldn’t afford to turn down, and while it didn’t hinge on this piece of civility, politeness never hurt. The Infanta was also a beautiful, in-heat Omega, who had asked him nicely to fuck her. So Blake was _going_ to fuck her, and enjoy it, unless Avon could give him a damn good reason why he shouldn’t.

Avon, it seemed, could not. His eyes were shuttered and unreadable. His jaw worked, and his lips were pressed so thin Blake wondered if it hurt.

He took a step back from Blake and muttered something sour along the lines of ‘On your own head be it’.

Avon abruptly teleported up without offering any farewells to their hosts, leaving Blake to enjoy a pleasant meal with the Infanta and a still more pleasant evening.

***

“Blake gets all the luck,” Vila complained the next morning.

“Shut up, Vila,” Avon said with unnecessary violence.

In Blake’s absence, the crew had clumped onto the flight deck like motherless ducklings. _Pathetic_ , Avon thought, rapping his fingers against his console and then moving on. But Blake would be back soon. A few hours, at most. And then they could all go back to their lives.

Avon moved restlessly, pacing (giving it, Jenna privately thought, his best caged-tiger impression). He found nothing comfortable today. Not his room (or he’d be sulking there alone), not his clothing (everything was tight and hot—he’d eventually had to opt for the black Gi top and light, black trousers he used for exercising as the least offensive option), and not any position, resting or moving.

“I mean it,” Vila persisted, though no one had thought he hadn’t. “No beautiful Omega princesses ever proposition me. And for the good of the revolution, no less.” His eyes became a bit unfocused as he said, “They say Omegas go for hours, you know—say they really inspire a partner.”

“They say a lot of things,” Avon snapped.

“I’ve never had one, mind you,” Vila mused.

“You amaze me,” Avon sneered.

“I’ve been with one,” Jenna said. She wasn’t bragging. She just happening to be better-traveled and more experienced than most of them, as usual. “In heat, too. He was lovely. Very physically demanding. Worth it, of course, but not what I’d want every time.”

“‘Not what you’d want every time’?” Avon said with an unpleasant smile. He stopped his pacing. “As though an Omega were—what, an in-flight meal on a transcontinental shuttle? Was your partner not precisely to your _taste_ then, Jenna?”

Jenna flinched slightly. She hadn’t expected Avon, of all people, to score a moral point on her.

“They _are_ people,” Cally said, her even tone not shaming Jenna, but acknowledging Avon’s argument.

“On my colony we got along without any of this,” Gan said with a shrug. He didn’t envy the genetically engineered Terran-humans. For all the exotic sexual pros, there seemed to be a lot of cons, and a lot of bother and negotiation. He and Cally had discussed it once—she enjoyed helping Jenna through her ruts and appreciated Jenna’s attributes and abilities, but wouldn’t have wanted her own set.

“What’d she look like? The Infanta, I mean?” Vila asked Avon—the only one of the crew to have seen the woman. The member of the crew Blake had wanted at his side during the negotiations. The one he’d sent home smartly when a chance for better, more obliging company came along.

Avon grit his teeth. Little blonde fucking ringlets. Cheap slut. She certainly had diseases. He hoped they were excessively embarrassing and painful, and that she died horribly of them. If not, he could _easily_ take her in a fight. He’d start by pulling that too-long hair. If he got a good grip he could use it to smash her insipid, characterless face to a bloody pulp against the nearest hard surface—perhaps her gauche purple marble columns. See whether Blake would be _honored_ to share her heat then.

Avon blinked, realizing everyone was looking at him with shock and horror. Then he—realized he must have said at least some of that out loud.

Gan snorted. “Go on, tell us what you really think.”

Why had he done _that?_ Avon swiped his forehead. Burning up.

“I’m not—well, I don’t think,” Avon said, suddenly noticing it was a hard to breathe. He grabbed the back of the flight-deck couch for leverage. He’d barely slept last night. Had found it almost impossible with Blake down on the planet. Perhaps he—No, this wasn’t simply exhaustion.

“Easy,” Jenna said, moving to steady him.

“ _Don’t,_ ” he said automatically. “No, I—Don’t touch me.” Jenna especially, she was an Alpha, she wasn’t the _right_ —He tried to steady his breath and his thoughts.

“All right,” Jenna said, taking a step back and regarding him through narrowed eyes.

“Avon,” Vila said carefully, “I’m going to try something, all right?”

Carefully, letting them all see what he was doing, Vila rolled up his sleeve and took off his patch. His face scrunched dramatically, and Avon flinched.

“Did you take your normal stuff this morning?” Vila asked, cautious, replacing the patch.

“Of course,” Avon said automatically. “I always—“ Then he paused. In addition to the patch, genetically marked people tended to use a variety of scent-masking shampoos, deodorants and pills. Avon had his own routine, from which he never deviated. He had special reason never to want to risk it. And this morning, just as always, he had—

He tried to remember. It was just possible that he had stepped in the shower and neglected to use the scent-destroying tincture. That he had _not_ taken, dry as usual, a suppressant pill. That he had not used _anything_.

Starting to doubt himself, Avon muttered, “Excuse me” and left the flight deck. In his cabin he found evidence that supported his suspicions. The pill on his desk, untouched. A bottle of standard, scentless shampoo that he must have fetched from the drawer, sitting in the shower. Proof that he’d done a series of irrational and inexplicable things, and could hardly _remember_ doing them, let alone making any decisions along those lines.

“It sometimes happens,” Cally said on the flight deck in the wake of Avon’s sudden departure, “that people act without remembering they’ve done so. Usually in cases where their conscious minds refuse to allow them to meet their needs.”

“I think we all know Avon isn’t in touch with his emotions,” Jenna said dryly.

“So he’s hard up and putting out ‘get it here’ signals?” Vila asked. “Or did I miss something?”

Cally bit her lip to keep from repeating herself.

“Funny thing is,” Vila said, “he didn’t smell—usual. You know. Really _nice_ , actually, but—oh my god.”

“What?” Gan asked (rather unnecessarily, Cally thought—surely they had all guessed it by now).

“No wonder he’s sensitive about how people talk about Omegas,” Jenna said, answering _that_ question (and privately slightly pleased that he’d had a personal reason to be aware of the Omega plight—she’d hate to think of herself as less of an intrinsically decent person than _Avon_ ).

“Explains why he was so awful about the poor old Infanta,” Vila mused. “Omegas are supposed to be _really_ competitive when they want the same Al—oh my god.” Vila did not, apparently, share Cally’s fear of repeating herself.

“It could just be pheremonal,” Jenna said fairly. “We shouldn’t rush to any conclusions. And we shouldn’t say anything to Blake, _Vila_.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Vila protested.

“It’s his and Avon’s business, _if_ there’s even business,” Jenna said.

Gan snorted. “For one thing, Avon would kill you.”

“You know what I was saying about—not wanting an Omega every time?” Jenna said after a moment, with a frown.

“It sounded intense and draining,” Cally said. “Rather like the sexual equivalent of dealing with Avon normally, I suppose.”

Jenna laughed. “Right. But if there’s someone who does want to deal with that level of intensity every time, who might even _need_ it—well, that’s Blake, isn’t it?”

“Best not to match-make,” Gan advised, shaking his head—sounding like the voice of experience. “I don’t think Avon would thank you for it.”

Jenna snorted. “I _wasn’t_ planning to.”

***

“What?” Blake said the instant he materialized, catching Vila’s innocent expression and knowing it meant trouble.

“Nothing!” Vila protested. “How was your ‘negotiation’, eh?”

“A gentlemen doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Since when do we have any gentlemen here?” Vila said, affronted.

“There’s Gan,” Blake pointed out, stepping out of the teleport bay, “and I’m endeavouring to learn from his example. Tell Jenna she can take us out of orbit—I’m going for a shower. Anything I should know?”

“Not really,” Vila said with a shrug.

Blake tried to glare him down, suddenly convinced that yes, there was, but Vila didn’t budge. Blake decided to leave it, for now. Vila would spill eventually, if it was important to their safety or if he felt guilty. And those two categories, thankfully, covered all pressing ship’s business. Anything else, Blake probably didn’t actually _need_ to know about (though he generally wanted to anyway).

Blake marched off to his cabin. He’d had a good evening— physically, though this morning he’d put a fresh patch on and taken his usual suppressants so could get back to the ship and think coherently today. If he still felt a bit jangled, like all his bones were slightly out of alignment, he put it down to still being in a rut, drawn down by the Infanta’s heat. She was spending the remainder of hers with her usual partners. She’d invited Blake to extend his visit, but he’d made his excuses and returned on schedule. He hadn’t wanted to overstay his welcome, compromise the ship’s safety by remaining in orbit too long, or exacerbate the sullen feeling of unease that lingered in him, despite the sex and the company having been enjoyable. Now, pushed into a rut by the Infanta’s heat, he’d have to make do with another two days of solitary satisfactions in his cabin.

He reached his room, and had dropped his bag on the floor, and stripped off the jacket he was wearing over his tunic before he noticed Avon standing in the corner. Blake started dramatically. He took a few deep breaths, glaring at the other man, who didn’t even seem amused by his discomfiture.

“Did you need something?” Blake said sarcastically. Even Avon wasn’t in the habit of just barging into his room unannounced. Let alone waiting in it for a solitary word with him. It was especially rude during a rut. Avon wasn’t stupid, he had to have worked out Blake would be in one after a night with an Omega.

“Avon?” Blake asked, noticing now that Avon didn’t look well. In fact he looked thoroughly in-cycle himself (brought on by what?). “Are you all right?”

“Yes and no,” Avon said suddenly.

“Pardon?” Blake asked.

“Work it out,” Avon said crisply. He stepped forward and, to Blake’s complete surprise, started efficiently stripping Blake of his shirt.

“What—?“ was all Blake had time for, before Avon snarled, impatient with the buttons, and just started ripping at the thing, shoving it off Blake.

“You smell,” Avon said with vicious accusation, “like _her_. You are _drenched_ in her.”

Blake flushed a little with embarrassment. “I came in here to wash!”

He didn’t need to explain himself to Avon, or to apologize, much less to do so in his own cabin. How did Avon even know what he smelled like? If it had been safe to permanently embed a patch subdermally, Blake would have bet that _Avon_ would have been first in line for the operation.

“Not good enough,” Avon said, shoving Blake back onto his bed, clambering over Blake and straddling him. Avon ripped the patch off Blake’s arm, and suddenly Blake was reeling in hormones. He could tell Avon wasn’t using suppressant-products, but it was more than that—a heat-high wave of the stuff rolled over him. Too rich, a month of eating at four-star restaurants, and still he felt he had to get more of it, felt like he’d lost his taste for other food. He couldn’t have borne to put the patch back on. That was in-heat Omega-grade, and better. Highly _compatible_ Omega-grade.

Avon took advantage of Blake’s distraction to remove his own shirt. He had Blake pinned and was sure he wasn’t going anywhere. When Avon had effected the operation, he fell on Blake, licking at his wrists and neck, getting them clean, rubbing his own wrists against them. He wasn’t wearing any patch Blake could see.

Blake gasped and lifted his hands to Avon’s waist, hooking his thumbs in the band of Avon’s trousers, sliding his fingers underneath it and dragging the trousers and the underwear beneath them down. Avon lifted his hips to facilitate, prompting Blake to be more aggressive in his removal. Avon kicked himself free. He unbuttoned Blake and shoved Blake’s trousers somewhere down around his knees, not seeming to care that they weren’t entirely dealt with—Avon had what he wanted, at present. If Blake was, effectively, bound, all the better.

Avon was flushed and breathing heavily, panting. His eyes were sharp and wild. Blake looked up at him with a touch of shocked wonder. Avon surveyed Blake’s cock (licked his _lips_ , absently, seeming not to realize he was doing it) and took it in a proprietary hand, curling his fingers around it and squeezing. Blake’s hips jerked off the bed.

“That’s _mine_ ,” Avon hissed, jerking Blake’s cock, and Blake moaned when Avon bent his head and licked this, too clean, when he took the whole thing in his mouth, right down to the knot. Then Avon slid back, and sat up. Pinning Blake’s wrists with his hands, he dropped bodily down on Blake’s cock in one swift movement. Avon was an Omega, and seemed highly aroused and thus prepared for this, but even so he went rigid and still for a moment, adjusting to the change. Blake ran his hands over Avon’s back and arse, then brought a soothing thumb to Avon’s clit, rubbing to relax him, trying not to think too hard at present about Avon’s warm, wet, tight cunt and how he was deliciously, torturously clenched in it and mustn’t, _mustn’t_ move, mustn’t thrust, mustn’t fuck, _fuck_ , Avon.

Avon’s eyes closed under Blake’s ministrations, and when he opened them again he shifted his hips, testing the parameters of his situation, the weight and the fullness. A touch of smug satisfaction flitted across Avon’s face, and Blake thought he’d obscurely suspected Avon would love it _big_ (and Blake knew he could provide that. He was large, even for an Alpha).

Blake shifted his hips, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Avon’s breath caught, but then he glared at Blake, and started to move with decision. He bounced on Blake with determination, and after a few repetitions the slide and drag of it had him making small noises. He began to move faster, and with greater enthusiasm. And then he was rapid and frantic, desperate, slamming his cunt down hard on Blake, almost taking in the knot already, and letting Blake help him, letting Blake clutch greedily at his hips and arse, shoving Avon down onto him, manipulating him like a toy.

While Blake had had sex hours before and taken the edge off his rut, Avon’s heat (backed by a long span of sexual frustration) was in full-blast, rendering him far more out of control. This far gone, Avon started snapping at Blake’s neck when Blake leaned up to try and kiss him (and for wild moments Blake wondered if he might actually bite, and surprised himself by hoping Avon _would_ ). Avon hissed approval when the scent-glands in Blake’s wrists slid over his own sweat-slick torso and picked up his imprimatur. He babbled as he fucked himself, gasping, “Mine, that’s mine, you’re _mine_ ” at intervals, in time with his greedy movement, once hissing, “Here’s your fucking _reason_ ” into Blake’s ear before slamming Blake’s torso back down to the bed with his hand.

And Blake hadn’t been confused as to what this was about (other things, certainly, but not the inciting incident), but he still swallowed at that and said, “Sorry, Avon, I’m sorry, let me help you come, let me—” And he rolled Avon’s clit between deft fingers until Avon threw his head back in orgasm and said, “ _Blake”_ like it was a curse word.

Using Alpha strength, Blake pulled Avon off him and shoved him down on the bed, face-first. He stood himself and dragged Avon to him, pushing Avon’s head into a pillow and canting his hips higher.

“Now where were we?” Blake grunted, properly divesting himself of his trousers, needing to get off himself and feeling none of last night’s creeping sense of misalignment. He shoved back into Avon and was rewarded with a gasp—and then several more. There was something decadent and irresistible about fucking someone you’d just made come. The tremors and the over-stimulation and the slickness and the glutinous possession of it.

“Too much?” he asked, and Avon tilted his head on the pillow so he could shake it, could answer without speaking, no, it wasn’t.

“No,” Blake said, watching the little he could see of Avon’s face, “you love it, don’t you? When it’s excessive. When it’s too much to bear. You take pride in handling it.”

Avon made a small noise and twitched under him like a plucked string. “And you like being talked to,” Blake said with a laugh, thinking of how often Avon had provoked arguments between them. Blake had previously wondered whether Avon just loved the sound of his own voice. Apparently not _quite_.

“And you _love_ being fucked.” Blake said it like an accusation. Avon shuddered in answer, squirmed, and Blake dragged Avon’s hips back into place and pinned them with his hands, pounding hard, fucking Avon harder than he’d dared fuck anyone in an age (nothing like last night’s polite sex with a delicate stranger—his Avon could handle anything), with Avon writhing for it, seeming to ask him if _that_ was all he had, canting his hips for more, pushing up into the hands that were leaving bruises on his hips. “Mm, and you never _get_ it, do you—never trust anyone enough to ask, never let yourself have it. You don’t want anyone to take advantage of your being an Omega, to think any less of you. You didn’t even trust _me_ enough to tell me not to sleep with another Omega—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Avon managed, “don’t you _ever_ do that to me again. Don’t you _dare,_ you’re _mine_ , I _can’t_ —”

“I won’t,” Blake soothed him. “Wasn’t that easy? You should have known I’d do that for you, if you told me going through with it would make you miserable. You can ask me anything.”

“I want your knot,” Avon moaned, twisting on Blake’s cock. “I need it, it’s mine, it’s, please, I—”

Blake struggled for composure. Avon begging for his knot was the stuff of illicit, rut-cycle fantasies. But Avon wasn’t physically ready for it yet.

Blake stroked a hand down Avon’s back, pausing in his thrusts.

“Shh. It’s all right. It’s yours, it _is_. I’m going to give it to you.” Avon’s twitched beneath him, and Blake continued to soothe. “I am. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you, for once.”

That slightly bitter reminder of the times Avon had threatened to abandon Blake seemed to unnerve Avon—and Blake rather nastily wondered why Avon’s face (half hidden by the pillow) now wore an expression of panic, when when it was Avon’s decision if he stayed or left, when it was _Blake_ who would be left behind if Avon slunk off. He’d always made sure Avon knew he could go at any time.

...which come to think of it, might be the _last_ thing an Omega dealing poorly with an evident and insufficiently worked-through infatuation with someone he apparently considered very much _his_ Alpha _actually_ wanted to hear. After all, Avon _could_ leave, and never _did_.

Well, there was something could do to ease Avon’s mind on that score. If it didn’t work and Avon was bloody _furious_ with him afterwards, Blake could always claim it had been the rut talking.

“Avon, when I said you could leave at any time, that it was your decision—” Blake began carefully (reassured when Avon went stock-still underneath him at that, his muscles tense, his eyes, looking over his shoulder, back at Blake, wide and a little frightened), “I lied. You can’t _ever_ leave me, Avon. I’ll never let you go.”

Avon didn’t say anything, but his breath caught and his eyes were very dark. Encouraged, Blake continued. “If you ran, I’d chase you. I’d hound you until you came back to me. I’d have you if I died for it.” Avon made a soft sound like a moan, and Blake decided to go all-out. “I need you, depend on you completely. I cherish you. You’re _mine_.”

He slid his hand into Avon’s and Avon clenched it compulsively. Then he clenched _himself_ compulsively around Blake’s cock, and Blake swore. Though he’d been trying to pace himself so as not to hurt Avon, whose ego and desire outstripped his ability to take a knot without a _lot_ of preparation, his control slipped and he shoved in to the base, earning a ragged gasp from Avon.

“Oh _yes._ Please,” Avon said, “ _please_ , just—”

“Oh,” Blake swallowed, “I do like the begging. You are mine, aren’t you, Avon? Say it.”

Avon shoved himself back hard against Blake, making Blake hiss and dig his fingers into the sides of Avon’s arse. “ _Yes._ You _know_ I am, you—Come on,” Avon babbled, talking half to himself, like he did sometimes when he was making repairs. “Take me, that’s—” Blake started to fuck him with conviction again, and Avon shuddered each time he felt the knot pop in and out of him, thick and hard and swelling and Blakean-levels of uncompromising. “ _That’s_ it, come on, come _on_ , Blake, _Blake_ —”

Avon gave an embarrassing (well, he’d probably think so, later—Blake found it hot as hell) scream as the knot locked in him against his prostate, but Blake only had an instant to find it rather sweet because he was coming in Avon, and Avon was coming around him with a wrecked, thready moan.

Avon had just thrashed out a prostate orgasm, but trapped like this Blake could easily reach around and stroke his cock, and did. Avon twitched with over-stimulation, but Blake murmured, “I’ve got you. You can do this for me, can’t you? You’ll take it for me.” Avon nodded and, with a few strokes of Blake’s hand, came again with a delicious little whimper. Then he slumped down flat on the bed, his exhausted, trembling, protesting legs sliding out from under him. Blake dropped down over him, supporting himself on his elbows.

It was _so_ good. The other man shifted under him, making Blake catch his breath. He was still locked, hard, in Avon, whose body was still wringing him out, like every last drop of him properly belonged to Avon. Having Avon lax and yielding like this made Blake want to fuck him again and again, until all the tension slipped from Avon’s muscles and he finally felt safe enough, replete enough, to be happy. Avon experimentally squeezed his still-pulsing cunt around Blake, making his own breath judder and Blake groan. Blake wanted that slack mouth, with its plush lips, to wrap lazily around the muscles of his neck, and for Avon’s teeth to sink precisely into him, working deep into the flesh. He started a little, realizing what he was seriously fantasizing about, but now he’d begun he couldn’t stop.

He leaned down and licked Avon’s neck, letting his teeth graze lightly.

“Do it,” Avon murmured, very quietly. Blake stilled. Avon repeated himself, giving Blake better access to his neck. “It’s only what we already—Blake, I’ll let you. Go on.”

“ _You_ can’t mean that,” Blake said despite himself, shocked.

Avon looked confused, worried again. “It’s what I want.” He seemed to decide Blake needed encouragement, and stole Blake’s breath away with another hard, deliberate contraction of his body. “Make me yours,” he said, tone half enticement and half command. Blake hadn’t heard that register out of Avon before, but thought it was somehow very _him_.

“Tell me again when you’re sober,” Blake said, voice more ragged with longing than he’d expected. Avon’s permission ( _pleading_ ) made Blake want _badly_ to take him up on it. But he respected Avon, _so_ much, and he wanted to be sure, very _very_ sure, that this _was_ what he wanted. And lest Avon feel rejected, like Blake now suspected he had done when Blake had told him there was the door, he could go when he liked, and Blake could get on very well without him, Blake clarified. “I _want_ you to tell me that,” he pressed. “ _God_ , Avon, there’s nothing I want more than you choosing to be at my side, deciding to stay there.” Blake also had less noble-sounding reasons, and he supposed he might as well say them while he was here, in case they were what Avon needed to hear. “I _also_ want to watch your face while I shove my knot and then my teeth in you, in case that’s not self-evident.”

Blake suddenly remembered that Avon hadn’t used any suppressant products today. “Avon—did you take the heat-meds?” If he’d forgotten one, he might have forgotten the other.

Fuzzily, Avon shook his head no. “I didn’t even remember not using suppressants or a patch.”

Blake’s head swam. Careful, methodical Avon had let an Alpha fuck him, fill him up with come and knot him, without taking precautions. Had demanded Blake do it. A part of Avon might have _wanted_ to forget. They could use morning-after medication—the stuff was as ubiquitous as penicillin—but still, the very thought of that careful-carelessness, which bypassed the strict rationality of Avon’s own conscious mind, was so _extreme_ and out of control and— _dangerously_ appealing.

What if they _didn’t_ use the medication? Avon, who excelled at almost everything important, would manage to give Blake wonderful children. Would pride himself on that, too. Blake could just _see_ his smug expression, could practically hear the exhausted well-Blake-I-told-you-I-could triumph in his voice—and what a delightful nightmare he’d be afterwards. No one would do ‘my children are _much_ better than yours’ like Avon.

That—was something else to discuss when they were sober. To discuss _very carefully_. Obviously it was out of the question at _present_ , but—

God Avon had better not pretend this had been some hormonal mistake. It was clear to Blake now that he had been unhappy being with an appealing, basically compatible partner because she wasn’t Avon. Because he _loved_ Avon, and if Avon was willing to have him, that was that. But Avon had turned him away once before, and he could be contrary and defensive. Blake even understood why he might be, especially after this grand loss of control—to be an Omega was in some ways to be vulnerable. And Avon’s sex-class was perhaps the least dangerous to him of his concealed vulnerabilities.

Blake felt them uncouple and slid off Avon, absently turning him over so they could see one another properly and coming to rest beside him on the bed.

“Did you not want me at the start?” Blake asked after a quiet moment. “I wanted you.” It hadn’t just been politeness that had made him offer.

Weakly, coming back to himself a little, Avon laughed. “Oh yes. You wanted me for a very Alpha exchange of rut-pleasantries. Omegas don’t do that, as a rule—people, for the most part, handle our pheromones rather poorly, and become uncivilized. It isn’t something one subjects oneself to carelessly. And I—never could, with you. I knew I’d say something or want something beyond the bounds of that arrangement. I could hardly trust my control during a heat.”

“Did you—?” Blake began, with a surprised frown. “Avon,” he continued, “were you—waiting for me to ask you properly?”

Avon suspiciously said nothing. If questioned, he would probably say his colour was down to his heat. He would probably snarl as much, and defend the assertion to his dying breath.

Then again, Avon would similarly defend his right to be free to jump to the non-viable bolt-holes no one was actually keeping him from fleeing to. Blake noticed Avon had said precisely nothing about Blake’s mid-coital assertion to the contrary. Avon’s actual response had been to enthusiastically non-verbally assent.

“That’s very old-fashioned of you,” Blake said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Avon replied sharply.

“It’s either cowardly and antediluvian or _very_ sweet,” Blake continued.

“Look,” Avon hissed, anger sharpening his wits and clearing the heat-haze, “ _you_ are the Alpha, therefore _you_ —”

“So it’s true, then?” Blake concluded with a smile. Looked at in _that_ light, Avon had been pushed to his limits by jealousy after Blake had made him wait almost two years for an appropriate consummation. Avon could have _said something_. Blake nevertheless felt like a bit of an arse. Avon opened his mouth to say something particularly insulting, and Blake got in first. “Avon, would you please do me the _unparalleled_ honour of spending the rest of my rut with me? I find I need you desperately.”

“What’s new?” Avon snapped automatically. “I would not deny you, but I yield upon great persuasion. And partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”

Blake laughed outright. “Do you always go from fucked stupid to full-on in under a minute? Charming.” And he meant it. “Come, I will have thee; but by this light, I take thee for pity.”

Avon gave him a sour but amused look that said quotes still counted as insults. Avon also neglected to mention that, for his part, he didn’t precisely remember deciding to come to Blake’s cabin—Blake would only start worrying about consent, which Avon thought was patently ridiculous, given that he’d been the one fucking himself enthusiastically on Blake there at the start. Besides, Avon felt he’d given his consent several times over, throughout the whole course of their acquaintance—blatantly, if Blake had wanted to see it. If Blake wanted Avon to articulate as much while sober, well, fine. Avon was now fairly sure Blake would finally manage to ask the right question in the right way, for the right reasons, allowing Avon to answer appropriately. Not ‘would you care to spend the rut together?’, but a request for everything, which offered everything in return.

“It’s an unflattering light,” Blake mock-soothed. “You’re very, very handsome on the flight deck, and on the majority of planets we visit. I’ll get a new lamp. You can stand under them in the shop until we find one that really does justice to your ephemeral—”

“Peace,” Avon said with a lazy smile, climbing back onto Blake, feeling another cycle coming on. “I will stop your mouth.”

They kissed.


End file.
